Akira: Revival
by CatharsisCreeper
Summary: Akira, the infamous No. 28, has awoken from his cryogenic slumber and finds himself propelled into a strange new world- and an elaborate web of manipulation and violence that threatens to tear the city of Neo-Tokyo apart.
1. Awakening

_For a long time, there was darkness. It was the only thing he knew, for he had lived in it. When there wasn't darkness, there were memories, dreams. They were his only comfort between the spells of oblivion. He had always dreaded the points where the comforting images in his mind would simply cut off. The spells lasted an eternity for him. I deserve this, he thought._

_This was what it was like to be frozen at a temperature of 0.0005 degrees Kelvin in a spherical container buried beneath the Earth. He wondered what the end would be like before the darkness came. He didn't want to hurt anyone. But he did. Many. That was why he was here._

_"I don't want this… I wish I would just go away. I have no place, no loved ones, no reason for anyone to care…"_

_At least now, he had time for himself._

_Until the world rotted away, if it hadn't already._

_But wait…_

_Light. There's light!_

_It had cut through the darkness, and enveloped him. What followed was mostly sensory, a Technicolor tableaux of sound and fury. What it meant was vague to him. _

_As the beams became closer, images began to flash. They zoomed by with such speed that even he had difficulty grasping their contents and meaning. _

_Then, there were sounds. _

_Voices, distorted. _

_Screams stretched. _

_Booms. _

_There was a pain surging around his body. It was sharp, burning in its intensity. The cold and terror from the inception of the darkness had returned with a vengeance. He had to scream, but he couldn't. _

_And then... silence._

* * *

The spherical container now lies in a veritable wasteland. About the ground, there are old papers, chunks of garbage, leftovers of a city that used to be. Surrounding the sphere is the foundation of an old building, tainted by graffiti. Steam emanates from cracks in its steel hide. Moments pass, and the steam clears. There is a metallic snapping noise, and the face of the ball slides off slowly. More steam.

As it clears, the prisoner of darkness is illuminated, if only dimly, by the light of the moon and the city beyond this dump. Inside the ball, curled into a primal position, almost fetal, is a boy.

There is an ethereal glow about his bare, almost porcelain white body.

In the ball, the boy's mouth opens slightly. There is a croaking noise from his throat, and a cough. His torso, once stiff and rigid, gains a slow rhythmic motion from the gasps for air which began to pick up tempo.

His narrow eyes open, and his vision is blurry, an incomprehensible mess.

His breathing, at this point, was loud, heavy, and labored. He was still cold.

He could feel the hairs on his head and nape straighten, stand. His vision adjusted to the dim light, and he struggled to raise his left arm over the pod. His fingers felt something rough. It was dirt. He assumed that this prison was lodged into the ground. He turned inside, his lower back reclined against the bottom.

Slowly, the boy rose in the darkness. He pulled himself over the miniature crater, his stiff hands taking up bits of the soil. His legs were starting to lose the weariness.

Standing naked in the wasteland, he was shivering. He had woken up after a lifetime of darkness, and already, he was fatigued. He fought to sneeze, but it was lodged within him, and it didn't want to come out. Looking down on the ground, he noticed the garbage and newspapers. The boy turned, surveying his surroundings. This couldn't have been the Tokyo that he was born and raised in.

He palmed his face with his left hand. As he drew away, he saw, once again, his number. Printed on his hand, in bold, was the number** 28**.

This was no dream, no false awakening. This was real.

The boy limped away into the wasteland night.

_Why am I awake? What is the place? How long...?_

Surely, he would find his answers.

* * *

This new night was young, and the end of the cold was nowhere in sight. As he stumbled through this dump, two things occupied vast spaces of his mind: getting better and getting clothes. How he achieved these goals were irrelevant to him. When he made a decision or acted on something, he went through with it. Whether or not the outcome was beneficial did not matter, so long as the goal was met. He didn't care if he had to walk into the strange new city delirious and dressed like Moses. He couldn't fly there. Not only was it impossible in his condition, it was suicide.

He paused for a moment at the entrance of the wasteland, a rough patch of concrete with mounds of wrecked vehicles and other assorted relics. Up ahead, near one of the mounds, was a light. It was fire. He increased his pace from a meandering limp to a meandering stride. It was the best he could do. Usually, the best thing he could do was the only thing he actually did.

Upon reaching the fire, which was contained in a garbage can, of all things, he leaned slightly over it, stopping to catch his Arctic breath. He crouched, sitting down on the concrete. It was his only means of rest.

In Survival, he had learned of a technique that, in any other situation, would've eliminated the cold entirely. The way he was sitting reminded him of that very session.

"Energy healing can make the difference between a live psychic and a dead one," the instructor said.

He and a few other boys his age, clad in JSDF fatigues, were in a half-circle facing the instructor, a thirty-something woman with round sunglasses. Nobody spoke during the entire training session.

"Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Try and locate whatever pain is in your body."

He could sense blockage in his lungs, but he already knew that when he first stepped out of the cryogenic capsule. The cold was pervasive, everywhere. He opened his eyes again, and began to stare at the garbage can. He tried to lift it. The can wobbled slightly to the right, but getting off the ground was not easy.

Clearly, he had exerted a great deal of energy by getting out of the containment facility where he had been for so long. He returned the can to its initial spot, and let out a low, rough sigh.

There was no point in using his powers. The necessity was there, but weakness, inaction, overtook him. He looked west of his location, and saw Tokyo.

It was brighter than usual, noisier too.

He knew deep inside that this wasn't going to be the city he knew. Survival lesson number one: use the new environment to your advantage.

He noticed already that this strange new place was seemingly divided into two different segments: old and new. From the look of things, he was heading out of the worst part. He was certain that he would run into somebody on the border between the past and the present.

He got up, and began slowly walking again.


	2. The Lord is Back in Town

In training, he had learned of a technique known as "dowsing". It proved useful during the war games that were held in the woods outside of Tokyo. Put simply, it was the psychic location of objects; he and the boys were blindfolded and dropped off at different parts of the woods. Clairvoyance was their only means of getting a grasp of the surroundings. The goal of this game was to regroup with the others at a particular area within a certain amount of time. The time allotted was usually not enough to allow a thorough fix on the location. They had to give each other hints and clues via flashes of telepathy. Dowsing had proved useful, in that it provided him not only with potential tools, but with information on his position.

In retrospect, he wondered about the efficacy of its application in a setting that was alien to him. He was making progress on his stumbling, and was now approaching some form of civilization. He was practically in the ghetto. The disturbance his totally undraped form may cause in the residents did not bother him. The boy passed through a dirt alley illuminated by more flaming trash cans. On both sides, he was surrounded by shacks, improvised kiosks, and numerous cardboard boxes inhabited by the homeless. There was some commotion up ahead in the form of monks. As the boy passed, the residents took notice. Their faces almost unanimously held looks of bewilderment.

The boy approached the ceremony being held by the monks. They were clothed in white, and the leader of the group stood at the front, behind yet another burning trash can. What he said was incomprehensible, jumbled between the murmurs of merchants and beggars and the thoughts of the silent.

Suddenly, there was a collective noise of surprise from the ceremony-goers. They were facing _him_.

The boy had found himself in a position in which he could be offered some sort of help, but he was ambivalent about whether he should receive it.

He caved in.

"_Does anyone… know where I can find clothing?_"

* * *

A few hours passed. The boy now had on a Hawaiian shirt, khaki slacks, and a pair of slippers that he sensed once belonged to an old woman. There was a jean jacket on the stool where he sat. He chewed on the _onigiri_ slowly. The monk was an inferior cook, but it would calm his nerves. His skin was beginning to regain color.

The leading monk, who sat at the adjacent stool, was silent, as was the cook.

The boy took a pause from eating after a gulp. "_Do you have anything I can wrap this with?_"

"Yes… the wraps are in the cabinet, behind you." The man's voiced contained a hint of nervousness.

The boy got up from his stool and knelt down in front of the cabinet. Opening it, he saw that the two shelves were lined with plastic bags, some torn. They would do. Taking one, he stuffed the food in, and tied the bag.

"You're leaving, are you not?"

"_Yes._"

The boy donned the jean jacket, zipping it up.

"You are welcome to stay here, if you wish."

"_I am fine._"

The boy walked towards the door, and opening it, saw the dim light of the rising sun.

The boy looked at his left hand. The number **28**.

"Lord Akira…"

The boy turned around in response.

"Be careful out there."

Akira smiled very slightly. He slid his right hand into the pocket of his slacks, and pulled out a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators. He put them on, and walked away without saying word.

* * *

Akira's pace improved as he made his way into the strange new city. He paused momentarily at a sign above the ravaged road which read...

WELCOME TO NEO-TOKYO, THE CITY OF lost DREAMS!

**THIS IS THE DOORWAY TO HELL. GO BACK.**

_Whatever I did to this place, it must've really put everyone into a cheery mood._

Travelling beyond the sign, Akira entered a wrecked tunnel filled with abandoned cars, its graffiti-tainted walls forming a weird mosaic that stretched well to the end. He had accomplished his first objective; how he would complete his next task, finding answers, would be difficult. The city on the other end of the tunnel was definitely going to be more densely populated; police would be present. It was then that he wondered if any old friends in scrubs and white coats would be on his trail. If so, he would have to improvise in the event of an encounter. His powers were weak, and the cold, despite fading considerably, still remained. He sneezed into his left hand, and rubbed the palm of it against the jean jacket.

_What did I do to this place?_

What he had seen during his little walk burned the question into his mind. He tried to remember, _wanted desperately_ to visualize in detail the events that led to his wandering, but his condition and overall confusion prevented him from doing so. _Being blasted from an underground facility and into a dump that you may have created is enough to deter any rational mind from making progress with anything. Then again, who said I wa__s a rational boy? When I see the benefits of a decision, I follow through without hesitation. I guess I am somewhat blind to the pitfalls of my actions. I can admit that._

Akira came to a stop midway through the tunnel. To his right, there lay a decomposing corpse and a rusty bicycle. He stepped towards the bike, and noticed the corpse's right hand was clinging to the left handle. Akira grabbed the left handle, and brushed the dead hand aside.

"_You have my condolences._"

* * *

As the Chinook he was in buzzed through the dawn sky towards the old city, a wizened boy with purple skin slowly dragged a cigarette out of a pack with his black lips.

"Anyone here got a light?" he rasped.

Colonel Shikashima, seating beside him, reached into the pocket of his pants. "You really should quit, Masaru."

"No need to worry, sir. I'm already dead, right?"

The Colonel had nothing to say, and offered Masaru the lighter. With the cigarette now lit, Masaru leaned back into his hoverchair.

"Kiyoko really freaked me out last night. I'm sure Doc told you."

"He did," Shikashima replied. "They've got her under increased observation. EEG, EKG reviews every two hours, Rorschach tests... if there's a name for it, she's going through it."

"You think it might have something to do with our little adventure last night?"


End file.
